


what the frog is up with the weather?

by kaermorons



Series: Witcher Bingo Card~ [5]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witchers Control The Weather, Frogs as a Metaphor for Confusion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Light Swearing, M/M, Mild Peril, Milos the Dead Offscreen Witcher, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:11:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26000170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/pseuds/kaermorons
Summary: Jaskier figures out Geralt can control the weather with his emotions. Geralt apparently has no clue.Also, frogs?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher Bingo Card~ [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1828993
Comments: 39
Kudos: 214





	what the frog is up with the weather?

**Author's Note:**

> This fic also borrows Milos from [Hibernating With Ghosts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23119000/chapters/55317622) by [Fayet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fayet/pseuds/Fayet)! Poor dude can't catch a break.
> 
> This fits my bingo card for 'Secret Magic'.

“Geralt this is  _ nonsense.  _ First I spill gods-know-whatever was in that stew all over my lovely jacket, then I remember I may not actually be faculty when I return to Oxenfurt,  _ then _ the ridiculous bloody weather decides to blast snow up our pants rather than let us walk along a trail, you’re not doing me any good not helping identify  _ rocks, _ and I have to identify  _ rocks to save my job.” _ Jaskier ended his epic ranting with a huff, hardly out of breath for the noble Bard of the White Wolf. Even Geralt could hardly hear it over the sound of the howling wind. The snow whirled in little spouts all around them, lifting up the edges of their cloaks and whipping their hair all about. They’d just set out from Oxenfurt, on Geralt’s regular route when he went to pick up Jaskier for the Path.

“I’m not forcing you to come along with me,” Geralt said, a little loudly, to be heard over the wind. “And no one’s forcing you to look at rocks, Jaskier. You  _ told _ them you were looking at rocks.”

“To get them off my back! Who wants to read about rocks? There are far better things I could write a treatise on, that I could be researching. Like experimental progressions and the harmonics between stringed instruments—”

A frog got picked up by the little snowstorm, croaking frantically as it whirled about in the air. Quick as a flash, Geralt stuck his hand out and grabbed it, rescuing it from its snowy fate.

Almost soon as it had begun, the swirling snow ceased, settling onto the road beneath them. Geralt released the frog back into the forest.

“Now this spring weather, that’s something to write about,” Jaskier said, looking up at the sky as the clouds parted for the sun, as if there had never been any snow at all. He’d been given an ultimatum by his college dean: publish something substantial and academic by the autumn term, or lose your chance at tenure. Of course, he’d been given this demand at the beginning of the winter term the previous year, and had done nothing but mope around campus, whining to his students that he actually had to contribute to academia every so often. Geralt knew all this, of course, due to Jaskier’s rather dramatic greeting upon their reunion. Not fifteen minutes into walking and ranting, it had started to snow.

And now it had stopped snowing. How peculiar.

Springs on the Continent had actually been growing colder and colder, in Jaskier’s memory. There was always quite a bit of snow in the days preceding Geralt’s arrival in Oxenfurt. Jaskier supposed that event only seemed like a marker for Geralt’s departure from Kaer Morhen, but he didn’t know. Geralt was pretty secretive about the old keep in the Blue Mountains, mostly.

They walked the entire first day together, stopping rather late to make camp in one of the older forests next to the Pontar. The trees grew thick here, and didn’t bend to any kind of wind. “I certainly hope it doesn’t snow again while we’re stationary. Wouldn’t do to freeze to death on our first day back on the Path.”

He could almost hear Geralt’s scoffed  _ our. _

He’d been on the road with Geralt for almost eight years by then, and had grown used to being a traveling bard, chasing his muse (and his muse’s horse) all over the Continent. Jaskier had so much to catch Geralt up on, which he started to do as he made their fire. He didn’t tell Geralt he’d been practicing making fires all winter long, and was now quite the dab hand at it. When the strike of flint caught true on the first try, and built into a steady flame, he looked to Geralt for his approval.

The hint of a smile rested on the Witcher’s lips. He held a few rabbits to cook for that night, and a handful of foraged nuts and berries. “Excellent!” Jaskier exclaimed, wiping his hands on his trousers as he stood. “We shall eat well tonight, my dear Witcher.”

No sooner had he said that, the softest fall of snow began around them, dusting their shoulders in gentle white. Good thing the fire was already built up. They prepared the rabbits and the rest of their dinner, leaving some for breakfast the next morning, but the sprinkle of snow was seemingly a fluke, ceasing the moment they had started to focus.

From there the night turned mild, warm, and comfortable. Jaskier dared to take off his cloak, and just relax against a nearby rock. “Shall I play for us tonight?”

“You learn anything new?” Geralt asked. Jaskier grinned.

“Did I ever.”

The night remained comfortable, a relaxed quiet settling in between the two of them. It was always a bit unnerving, these first few days. Jaskier was sure Geralt would be able to tell just how excited he was to see the Witcher again, but after six years of annual Oxenfurt pickups, Geralt hadn’t mentioned his pounding heart or the constant grin Jaskier kept on.

When he put his lute away for the night, and set out his bedroll, the weather stayed unchanged. He wasn’t sure if it was just the novelty of being back in the outdoors, sleeping under the stars with Geralt again, but Jaskier found himself noticing it more and more.

Just before he fell asleep, he felt the softest brush of snow against his cheek.

* * *

Geralt knew Jaskier was in a focused mood. He got this way when he was composing some new song or ballad or poem. This time, however, he was writing down numbers and figures in his journal. He bought a strange device when they arrived in Novigrad, and another just before they left the city. Jaskier checked the readings off and on, writing in his notebook when he found something particularly interesting.

It was kind of a bummer.

Geralt had grown rather used to Jaskier’s attention, his company, but he seemed constantly off in his head this summer, in his own world. He continued tittering about the weather, as the clouds grew heavy with rain, but did not pour onto them.

Geralt wasn’t sure he’d seen this many frogs around since the infestation at Kaer Morhen last century. Perhaps Jaskier was onto something, regarding the weather. The handful of times he mentioned it to him, though, Jaskier kind of brushed him off about it, not interested in his frog observations. He huffed angrily and walked off into the woods, away from their camp.

There was a small  _ bribbit _ to his left. The frog stared at him. Geralt stared at the frog. The frog croaked, and spat fire. “What?!” Geralt picked the frog up and hurled it toward a nearby stream, stamping out the fire.

He was so distracted by the damned  _ fire frog _ that he didn’t even notice the encroaching bandits until they were upon the camp. He rushed back, cursing himself for leaving his swords behind while he walked off his anger. The air felt thick and humid all around him, and he couldn’t take a deep breath to calm himself.

The blood in his veins stopped at the sight he walked into.

Jaskier was on his feet, his hands clawing at the forearm of a bandit that had him around the neck. He stilled instantly when the glint of a wicked-looking dagger reflected in the firelight, pointed right at Jaskier’s neck. The air was soupy around them. Jaskier’s eyes met his for the first time in days, frightened and anxious.

“Give us your money and your horse, and we’ll let him keep an ear,” one of the bandits threatened.

The humid air turned boiling around them, hot and wet like a kiln by the sea, like the inside of a dragon’s cave. His eyes flashed with rage as he whirled faster than any of them could track. He lunged for the bandit holding Jaskier, wrestling his bard and the dagger away from harm. Jaskier went limp in his arms, and now Geralt had a weapon.

The air was sticky and boiling as he dispatched the bandits from their lives. One of them got a lucky slash in on his arm, deep enough to smart but not enough to seriously harm the Witcher. The forest around them tensed and suddenly snapped, flooding with light, then deafening sound. The lightning had struck just beyond the treeline, deep in an oak where the fire burned, contained by the bark. Sometimes things just  _ happened _ on the Continent. Geralt looked at the burning tree for a moment before going to his knees next to Jaskier.

“Are you alright?” Geralt shouted over the ringing in his ears.

“What?” Jaskier said back, his voice muffled. “Are you alright?”

“What? No, are  _ you _ alright? Are you hurt?”

“You’re hurt?!” Jaskier sat up, taking Geralt’s arm. “Look, you’re bleeding everywhere!” Sure enough, the slash to his arm was dripping lazily onto the dirt. Two frogs hopped by, as if nothing interesting was happening.

“I’m fine. Are you,” Geralt shook the bard, getting his point across. “Hurt?”

“I’m so sorry, I can’t hear you, what? I think that was lightning! Why is it so hot? Did you feel that? In the air?” Jaskier babbled, but it was so fast Geralt couldn’t make out what he was saying. His bard was safe, and that’s all that mattered. He couldn’t smell the bard’s blood in the air, making it easier to breathe again, the air cooler now. Jaskier continued his babbling long after Geralt’s ears had recovered from the lightning strike. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to sleep in a forest with a storm brewing.

“We should pack up. Find a town. Bandits probably have some loot at their camp, wanna check it out?”

“Fuck yes!”

If either of them noticed the wet  _ plop _ of snow off of a branch behind them, they didn’t speak of it.

* * *

They were near the coast when vast beams of lightning started striking the water. They walked into town a few hours later and were greeted by scared, anxious citizens, hiding from the random lightning strikes. “Oi Witcher!” one called from a window, beckoning him near. Geralt frowned in suspicion but approached. “You better go tell your brother to hurry up on that drowner job, been out there for hours.” Jaskier grinned up at Geralt. He loved watching Geralt chop off drowner heads.

“Fine. Where’s your stable?”

They shouldn’t have gone to investigate.

When they arrived, all the drowners were dead, but what they found alive was something that would haunt their memories forever. Scorch marks from at least two dozen lightning strikes surrounded the sandy inlet they found the Witcher in. Even Jaskier could hear the close-to-death rattle coming from the man’s throat, blood spraying onto his own skin. “Gods—” Jaskier whispered.

“Milos?” Geralt went to his knees beside the man, assessing the damage. His wounds were too deep for hope. Geralt pressed his hands over the man’s body, where the gash was bleeding worst. There was a puddle of blood slowly growing around them.

“What do we do? Geralt what—”

Jaskier stopped himself when Milos locked eyes with Geralt, sharing a meaningful stare. He nodded, coughed, and then nodded once more. Geralt let out a slow, long breath and stood, unsheathing his silver blade. This time, not for monsters, but for an honorable kill. “Jaskier—” Geralt’s voice was tight.

“I won’t look.” Jaskier turned his back on the scene, looking into the woods and taking a few steps away. The sky had turned a dark green-blue-black, the color of deep bruises. A few fat raindrops fell onto Jaskier’s face, and he wiped them with his sleeve. The rain masked the noise of the kill, and Jaskier was at least expecting the lightning strike, testing a theory. It still boomed and lit up the entire area, but it was followed by a deafening roll of thunder. The wind scraped across the trees, angry and picking up speed by the second. Jaskier could recognize the sound of Geralt cleaning off his sword and sheathing it. Jaskier almost stumbled forward from the force of the wind at his back. Geralt’s hand was suddenly there, steadying him.

“It’s done,” Geralt said, pushing something into his pocket. The rain fell harder now, saying what Geralt’s face did not. “We need to—”

“Oh, gods, Geralt, look!” Jaskier thrust a finger out toward the coastline, pointing to a rapidly-forming waterspout, moving towards land. He gasped when a sudden arc of lightning shot out of the funnel, five times in quick succession.

“We need to go, now. It’s not gonna be pretty if we stay.” Even as the Witcher spoke, he looked torn, wanting to bury Milos, give him a pyre, anything. The danger was ever-encroaching on them, though. “Let’s go!”

They ran through the wind and rain and lightning, dodging flying branches and debris as they sought shelter. They ducked into a large cave, most likely where the now-dead drowners had dwelled. The eerie moaning from the lightning tornado chilled Jaskier to his bones. Geralt urged him deeper inside, pressing his body against the cave wall with his own. Jaskier said nothing, instead looking up into Geralt’s stoic face. Only the years they’d been traveling together clued him in to the barely-restrained frustration and sadness.

That and the rain, probably.

Jaskier lifted a hand to the Witcher’s face, pressing it against his cheek gently, comforting him. Geralt squeezed his eyes shut and leaned into the hand, showing his thanks. They stood like that for close to an hour, the tornado going for much longer than Jaskier remembered regular ones lasting. When they walked out of the cave, there were almost no trees left on the coastline, the sand and earth blown flat. Milos was gone.

The walk back to town was just as silent. The storm hadn’t extended past the little forested area, but there was a bit of flooding and debris in the streets, already being cleaned up by the townspeople. The rain fell in terrible, heavy droves, soaking them both through by the time they got to the inn. They were given a room for free as soon as they told the fate of the Witcher they’d sent out after the drowners. 

It was too quiet in their room, no sound but the rain beating on the shutters and the drip of their clothes before the crackling hearth. Geralt wasn’t looking at Jaskier, lost in his own thoughts. He had Milos’ medallion in his hand, and Jaskier recognized the insignia with a sharp tug at his heart and a sinking in his stomach.

“He was a Wolf,” Jaskier whispered in realization.

“Yes,” Geralt replied, holding the medallion loosely in his hands, like he wanted to drop it to the floor. His hair hung loose around his shoulders and face, still dripping wet and tangled from the wind.

A knock at the door interrupted them, dry towels offered from the owners. Jaskier accepted them and tipped the maid, bringing them over. He stood before Geralt hesitantly. “You don’t have to say anything, but I know it’s easier if you talk about them, sometimes.” Jaskier quietly opened up a towel and wrung out the ends of Geralt’s hair, before scrubbing it over his head as gently as possible. It was a few long minutes before Geralt spoke.

“He was in Lambert’s class. They shared a nameday, and—” Geralt grunted past the lump in his throat. “They were quite close. He’s going to be quite upset to find out he’s now officially the youngest Witcher on the Continent.” Jaskier hummed and nodded.

“It’s not too bad, being the baby of the family. Less expectations on your shoulders.” Geralt looked up at him.

“You’re the youngest of your family?”

“Yes, of six. Four sisters and thankfully, an older brother to take over the family title.”

“You’re  _ nobility?” _ Geralt squinted his eyes. Jaskier was about to answer, when there was a shriek down the hall.

_ “Who let four bloody frogs in?!” _ Jaskier stifled a laugh and looked back at Geralt. He was in a little bit better of a mood.

“Why don’t we take a small break from the Path?” Jaskier blurted out suddenly. Geralt cocked his head to the side. “Just to. I don’t know, we should. Take a vacation.”

“That’s what winter in Kaer Morhen is for.” Geralt frowned.

“Ever consider that you  _ don’t _ have to shoulder your burdens for nine constant months of the year?” They were interrupted once more.

_ “THERE’S ONE IN MY HAIR!!” _

“A break sounds nice. Where were you thinking?”

* * *

They went to Toussaint. They had both lucked out, Geralt taking on a few larger hunts and Jaskier winning an impromptu poetry festival, so they managed to afford renting a little cottage for two weeks, on the edge of a vineyard. There were two beds in the cottage, but the icy rain that had plagued them the first week of their stay had forced them to push the beds together, huddling for warmth again even indoors.

Each morning, Jaskier limited his weather-watching to just a few minutes before going to talk with Geralt the rest of the day. Roach enjoyed her time in the little paddock, making horse friends. They hadn’t exactly broached talking about Milos or the other Wolves. Geralt had written a letter to send ahead to Kaer Morhen, to prepare Vesemir for news of Milos’ death, but Jaskier had not pried. For all their closeness and eight years of companionship, Geralt still needed space sometimes.

A few days before the end of their stay, the weather stayed clear enough that they could go out into the fields by the vineyards for a little picnic. Jaskier packed a few bottles of local wine while Geralt prepared some lunch for them to share under the sun.

“This has been...nice,” Geralt admitted once they’d settled on a blanket, walled in by the tall grass around them.

“Nice? I’ll take it.” Jaskier smiled up at the sky, closing his eyes and basking in the warm sunlight. He was just a little drunk, and hummed a song he’d been working on under his breath. Geralt watched him with a soft expression.

When Jaskier opened his eyes, he gaped in surprise at the sky. The blue had morphed into a mystic, magical—

“Pink!” Jaskier gasped, sitting up. Sure enough, all the air around them was swirling in bright magenta and soft blushing roses, the darker parts of the field tinged in purple. The air also had a shimmering quality to it, little sparkling points of light floating around Geralt and Jaskier on the blanket. He gave a disbelieving little laugh, looking around in delight. He went to his feet, grabbing the wine. “Geralt do you see this?” He tried touching one of the larger sparkles around them. It burst into a shower of silver and pink in his hand, warm and effervescent.

Jaskier ran into the field, just enjoying the warm air, the summer he’d been wishing for. His own flushed cheeks were darkened by the pink glow around them. He ran back to Geralt. “Isn’t this fantastic? I didn’t know the sky could do that!” A burst of sparkles rained around his head. Geralt still had that soft expression on his face, gentle and calm. Jaskier grabbed his hands, bold with the wine. “Feel.”

He scanned the air before them, and gently blew a sparkle into Geralt’s palm, still holding it. When it burst into the cascade of pink and silver like before, gold was added to the mix. Geralt huffed in surprise. “Medallion’s still quiet.”

“I do suppose it’s rather used to it by now,” Jaskier said offhandedly. Geralt looked at him, a confused little smile on his face, but looked down at his feet when something hopped over it.

A bright pink, shimmery frog was resting on his boot. Its eyes were solid gold, but seemed to pierce Geralt anyway. Geralt stared at the frog. The frog stared at him. It croaked and poofed sparkles a little bit. “Now that’s a weird fr—Jaskier?” Geralt looked back up. Jaskier hadn’t let go of his hand, and had swayed a bit closer to him, eyes unfocused but looking at Geralt’s mouth. Geralt’s heart pounded thunderously in his chest. Was he—

The pink dispersed back to blue, then the colorless white-gray of an overcast sky. The sparkles fell to the ground and stayed there. A humid breeze passed between them, and Jaskier swayed back on his heels, meeting Geralt’s eyes uncertainly. His blush seemed a little less like he was drunk and more like he was embarrassed. Jaskier pulled his hand away. Geralt’s hand prickled with the cold it left behind.

* * *

The rest of their time in Toussaint was spent in milder weather, but whatever pink sky that happened in the field did not repeat for the rest of their rental. They packed up quietly, and set out even quieter the morning of the last day, the Path calling to them again.

He wished he could have spent more time with Jaskier in their secluded summer cottage, but it had done the job. Milos was mourned and remembered, and Geralt had a handle on his grief by the time his boots hit the road again. He didn’t know what Jaskier had gotten out of their vacation, but he seemed a little calmer and quieter as they went between towns.

Things went about as normally for them as could be expected after that. As their season edged closer to autumn, Jaskier’s furious scribblings in his notebook and his device monitoring only increased as time went on. He had, however started to sing Geralt a little song before hunts, faster-paced and just a little bawdy, seeing him off at the trailhead. The wind whipped white hair against his satisfied smile as he marched into danger.

Perhaps that was why he was so tired coming back, fog in his mind and on the road. He’d been fighting harder to get back to Jaskier faster, but had no idea why. He didn’t like thinking too hard about it, because when he did his head started to ache and he saw shapes in the fog. Mostly frog-shaped.

It made the entire season start to feel a little boring and episodic. The dread of Jaskier’s approaching deadline for the autumn term doubled Geralt’s dour mood. His bard was constantly buried in the pages of the notebooks he had, eyes scanning everywhere but Geralt. As he sighed and settled in for another night of being ignored, the rain started up again quite suddenly.

“Gods above, that’s cold!” Jaskier shouted, scrambling to ready his tent. Geralt moved with him, but pouted about it. “Geralt, are you alright?” he asked, suddenly very close and concerned. “It, I mean, the rain—”

“Yeah, it’s just rain, why wouldn’t I be alright in the rain, in the damned silence?” Geralt snapped before he could stop himself. He wanted to be angry, but he was more just resigned. His mother, his friends from Kaer Morhen, they’d all abandoned him. Why should Jaskier be any different? The night around them grew dark and cold, their little campfire dying in the sudden deluge.

“Silence?” Jaskier asked, ignoring the rain for now. His eyes were big and blue and it pulled unfairly at Geralt’s heart.

“You haven’t  _ talked _ to me in weeks, Jaskier. You’ve been focusing on your stupid research and won’t even talk to me about it. You haven’t looked me in the eye or even  _ sang _ in the last four days. So yes, I’m right in thinking there’s going to be some damn silence with this rain. Never thought I’d hate it again.”

Jaskier gaped a little bit, looking sorrowful and forlorn, like a wet kitten. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, quiet and sad. He hadn’t expected it.

A rather loud croak sounded behind Geralt. He tried to ignore it.

“I’m sorry I’ve...I’ve certainly lost my way, haven’t I?” Jaskier gave another sad little laugh. The solo croaking became a quartet. “I lost my reason for why I’m out here, with you. I was so nervous about the future, and then I discovered something fascinating and I forgot why I was here. I didn’t mean to ignore you, Geralt. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

The rain lessened a bit, and the frogs quieted. Jaskier reached up and touched Geralt’s cheek, like how he did after Milos’ death. Geralt leaned into it again, but this time held Jaskier’s wrist.

“I’ve missed you,” he admitted softly.

“I’ve missed you too, my dear Witcher.” Jaskier held his breath and bit his lip for a moment before breathing, “Oh, fuck it.”

There was quite a long and curious list of reasons why Witchers had no idea they possessed secret magical weather powers, but I’ll keep this short. The first was that it honestly didn’t terribly help them on hunts, so there became a point where elder Witchers just...forgot to tell the new recruits. The second reason was that Witchers were the best creatures on the Continent at practicing denial, and being incredibly difficult to agitate into feeling stronger emotions. Sure, the lightning was strange, but stranger things were out there. Like dragons. The third reason, which applied just to the remaining Wolves of Kaer Morhen, was mostly because they didn’t see anything strange when they gathered in the wintertime each year. This was because when Witchers were incredibly, undoubtedly, contentedly, and profoundly happy…

It snowed.

Which explained why, when Jaskier kissed Geralt after declaring “oh, fuck it,” the air trembled with magic for a short moment before a large, defeaningly loud  _ ffffffWUMP _ of powdery white snow fell on their campsite, two feet thick and perfect for snowball fights. When the silence was perfect and still, it was then that a single frog croaked, the question apparent in its tone.

It was so jarring and unexpected that they couldn’t help but break into laughter, utterly surprised by the turn of events. The rain had stopped, but pink, glittery snowflakes fell in its place, albeit lighter than the previous snowfall. Jaskier grinned up at Geralt, biting his lip again to get a grip on his giggles.

“Do you really not know?” Jaskier laughed, holding Geralt’s face in both hands.

“Know what?” Geralt asked, grinning broadly. The air glowed a magical rosy pink, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

“I think this is a better conversation over drinks,” Jaskier shook his head and looked down. He hummed happily when one of Geralt’s hands came up, tipping his head back to kiss him again.

* * *

They were thoroughly distracted for hours by the time Jaskier remembered to say anything, too caught up in the flushed, sparkling glow around them. They managed to build up a better campsite nearby, letting the snow thaw where they were. It was any regular late summer’s evening outside of that clearing, much to Geralt’s surprise. Jaskier didn’t seem fazed by it in the slightest.

They were actually on a hunt in the next town when it occurred to Jaskier to say something. They were hunting something rather large, and dangerous, which was really not the right time to reveal a life-altering piece of information.

Jaskier’s timing efforts were all used for his songs, anyway.

“Geralt, there’s something I should—”

“Shh, we’re close.” Geralt crouched low in the underbrush, looking around.

“It’s kind of important—”

“Can’t it wait?” Geralt hissed back, though not unkindly.

“Actually, no I don’t think it can?” Jaskier sounded a little strained. He got this way on hunts. Geralt was used to Jaskier needing his attention at the most inopportune times, but this was a bit ridiculous. Geralt frowned and stood, looking expectantly at the bard. “Alright, well, you know how I was doing research on the weather this year?”

“I am exceptionally aware.” Geralt crossed his arms.

“Don’t give me that face, it’s important. I probably should have told you this theory when I first thought of it, but then I thought you’d not believe me when I told you, because you’re so good at denial—”

“No I’m not!”

“—you just proved my point. But I was trying to get a few more experiments done, more observations and conclusions before I told you—”

“Just get to the point, Jaskier.”

The bard huffed a huge sigh, rolling his eyes before putting his hands on Geralt’s shoulders, looking into his eyes. “I want you to know I am being utterly, gravely serious about this. I am not lying, and I do believe I’m actually correct. Witchers control the weather based on their emotions.”

They stood in silence. Geralt’s face was frozen in a rather constipated expression, and even Jaskier could tell that the gears in his head had ground to a rather dramatic halt. The air around them seemed tense. Jaskier could see Geralt’s medallion vibrating on his chest. Geralt didn’t move. He was stuck in place.

“Yes, well, mostly just emotions, and mostly just the weather, because sometimes when you bleed on the earth, lightning strikes, and then when you’re confused there’s suddenly—”

Suddenly, indeed, a great crashing and cracking noise barrelled through the treetops above them, getting louder and louder. Jaskier looked up in dawning horror.

“Fr-frog.”

“What?”

_ CRASH. _

A frog, five times the size of Roach and just as confused as Geralt, came to land before them. Geralt had his sword out in an instant, pushing Jaskier behind him. The croak the confused amphibian gave rattled their teeth, but there was something even worse coming.

A chort barrelled into view, snarling and not too confused by the frog, probably to its advantage. Geralt couldn’t get to the chort without walking in striking distance of the frog. He didn’t have time to make another tactical decision before the beast was crashing toward them, horns aimed right for Geralt and Jaskier—

A long, huge, wet, pink tongue shot out, wrapping twice around the chort’s middle, before retracting, pulling the beast into the giant frog’s mouth. There was a bit of a struggle, a rather determined wiggle of the frog, a muffled  _ crack, _ and then silence.

The frog stared at him. Geralt stared at the frog.

But the frog had already eaten lunch, so it hopped through the trees, shaking the earth as it went.

Geralt and Jaskier didn’t move or speak or hardly breathe for close to ten minutes, the air humid as all hell around them. “I think it’s gone,” Jaskier whispered. Geralt hauled the bard over his shoulder and ran for town.

* * *

That winter, Jaskier came along. He’d told the Academy to go fuck itself and its ultimatum after the giant frog incident. A half-dozen sparkly pink frogs followed them around for a few days, until Geralt finally accepted that Jaskier had fully invested in his calling, his place by Geralt’s side.

When he presented his evidence to a more ‘involved’ group of academics at Kaer Morhen, four hundred and eight frogs fell out of the rafters in the library. Most of them were Lambert’s fault.

The snow was a rather lovely blush pink that year, and many years after.

**Author's Note:**

> Final frog count: 428
> 
> Come say hi to me on [tumblr](https://kaermorons.tumblr.com/)!


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